


beats miles from here

by bravest



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 16:22:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2074875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravest/pseuds/bravest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes him a long time to read it. He keeps having to stop, his fingers tracing along the written words (his name, Simon's, Philip's, Jem's -- ). He tries hearing her voice in his head, listing off her demands, and smiles even though it feels more like his face is breaking in two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	beats miles from here

The hardest part is the blood, he thinks. He's seen a lot of blood, in his lifetime. His own, draining from him, taking with it his awareness, each sliver down his arm a fear gone. At the time seeing so much blood hadn't scared him, had instead filled him with a sense of peace. Soon, it would be over. Soon, once blood had filled the caves and he took a last inhale, filling his lungs with it, he would be  _done_.

This time, though, the blood isn't his. It's all over her dress. It's splattered on her face, on Philip's hands, on the floor. It's on his hands, too, sharp and metallic, stark against the pale marble of his skin. This time it's  _her_  blood, Amy's, the brightest ray of light he'd met in his clouded after life, the one person on this earth who had deserved to live a second chance, had wanted to live more than anything.

And she was draining herself in front of him. Her hand, bloodied to the fingernails, clutched in his. Her eyes closed, her face pale but  _warm_ , too, not the skin tone of the undead with splotches underneath but instead the tone of someone healthy and alive that was fading away.

She'd been so alive in death, and now Kieren was being pulled away from her, his grip tightening on her hand but the blood slipping and letting go. It's so bright, brighter than he remembered blood being, brighter than his own ever was, he's sure. It's  _Amy's_.  

He stares at his own hands for what feels like hours afterwards. He sits in silence while Simon talks to Russo, makes arrangements. They go back to the bungalow, and Kieren still hasn't washed his hands, Amy's blood is drying and cracked on his knuckles, stiffening his already stiff joints.

They find the bag and the envelope in her room. Simon holds it out to Kieren without a word, but they both know what's inside. Had she known, somehow, that something would happen?

Kieren's hand shakes as he opens it, his fingers leaving tracks against the paper. He doesn't want to stain it, stops his hands and shakes his head.

"I can't," he croaks, and Simon's shoulders sag. Kieren knows he's in shock, too, they're both bewildered and unhinged, like someone just pulled the rug from under their feet and they're stuck in the moment between realising and falling.

"It's for you, Kieren," Simon says, softly, a little nudge.

Kieren closes his eyes, takes a breath.

"I need to wash my hands," he says, holding the envelope out for Simon to take. 

Then Kieren's hands are under a steady stream of freezing water. He can't feel the temperature, but he made it as cold as it could go, and watches flecks of dried blood peel off his knuckles, watches brown-red water spill between his fingers and run over his palms.

There's something at the back of his throat.

He cries for Amy Dyer for the second time, alone in her bathroom, his head lowered so he doesn't have to see himself in the mirror. There are no tears, which is frustrating in an odd, vivid way. It feels like he's not completely letting go. Even in his grief, PDS gets in the way.

Simon doesn't hand him the envelope when Kieren comes out. Perhaps he's heard him, or knows, but he only watches Kieren like a hawk. There's a sad, desperate edge to him, though, and Simon's hands keep fluttering up like he wants to touch Kieren, before flitting away. He's on edge, which Kieren attributes to grief. The events of the graveyard are but dull, confused memories with no importance.

The only thing in the forefront of Kieren's mind is  _Amy_ , and when he grabs Simon's arm, he doesn't have to say anything before Simon's arms are around his shoulders, hugging him in a way that feels like a shield. Kieren's face is buried into the crook of his shoulder and he stays there, his hands at Simon's back, among the remnants of what Amy Dyer left behind; her grandmother's knick knacks, one of her coats on the couch, each other.

Simon's arms are so tight around him, holding onto Kieren as much as holding him, both of them keeping each other up as they feel the full brunt of Amy's death, so significant in both their lives. Their pain is theirs only, but they understand, they know of her importance, they know no one had ever been so deserving of life and love.

Later, they're on her couch, Kieren tucked against Simon's side, the envelope still half opened in his hands. His messy fingertips left marks like a brand, sealing Amy's will. He doesn't shake when he opens it this time, his head resting against Simon's shoulder, but he inhales sharply when he unfolds her will.

It takes him a long time to read it. He keeps having to stop, his fingers tracing along the written words (his name, Simon's, Philip's,  _Jem's_  -- ). He tries hearing her voice in his head, listing off her demands, and smiles even though it feels more like his face is breaking in two.

Simon's quiet, giving him time, until Kieren closes his eyes, feels this chasm in his chest, an ache, one he's already all too familiar with. He hands Simon the papers, then turns his face to press it against Simon's shoulder, to block off the rest of the world for a moment. 

A pit of regret opens up in his stomach for not having taken the time to talk to her about Simon properly, for evading her when she'd asked about him, for kissing Simon twice. She died without knowing how sorry he was for that. He'll be sorry for the rest of his life, which is apt punishment for disrespecting the person that had loved him so fully for who he  _really_  was, from the start.

Simon's sweater sleeve is scratchy, but it smells like detergent and moth balls, which is oddly comforting. Kieren turns his head again to stare down at his hands laying uselessly on his lap. There's still some blood along the inside of his nail, where it meets blackened skin.

"She loved you," Simon says. They are the first words either of them have spoken in at least an hour, and Kieren's face crumples briefly. "You've always been special," Simon added under his breath, but instead of awe there's sadness there.

Kieren doesn't want to hear it, not right now, but when Simon continues, it's not to sing his praises.

"Back at the commune, she talked about you a lot. She would go on and on. She would rub your post cards and letters in our faces but never let any of us read them, saying they were between her and her handsome," Simon says, voice trembling, folding the will back up to slide it back, carefully, into its envelope.

Kieren is listening, but he feels numb. He feels likes his ears, his head, his throat are all filled with cotton balls. That if he tried speaking he would only produced some awful choked croak.

Simon stops there, and Kieren just closes his eyes and breathes, tries not to think about how this is the third time he'll be seeing someone lowered into the ground, locked away, buried under the earth. He replays memories of time spent with Amy, thanks her in his thoughts for everything, for saving him from his room and his box of old mementos, for the day trips and the little boost in confidence and for Simon, too.

He drifts in and out of sleep. He doesn't know for how long, all he knows is that Simon is there whenever he wakes up, Simon sits in silence and mourns with him, Simon doesn't leave.

Eventually, Kieren feels ready to talk. He sits up a little, looking up at Simon from where he's slouched at his side.

"We should pick our outfits," he says.

Simon only looks at him, but Kieren feels his hand find his, lock their fingers together and squeeze. Then Simon nods, and the rest is a flurry of preparations to honour Amy to the best of their ability.

During the funeral, Kieren will huddle against Simon's side, press his arm against him, thank him for being  _there_  after Amy's death, a quiet but reassuring presence, a companion in grief, between them the silent understanding that neither of them would ever meet someone like Amy Dyer again.

But they had each other, and they would remember her, even if some days her absence might be a crater between them. They'll find a way back to each other, and Kieren will look at himself in the mirror every day, at least once, and tell himself to make Amy proud.


End file.
